Olympic Events

Just in case you thought the Olympics were over...they still happen daily at my house. Though we don't give out medals. Maybe that should change.
Getting out the door in the morning is like a new heptathlon. Five events only the most finely tuned Olympians can master. My sister, an elite athlete, would never be able to even place in these events. I scoff at her muscular body, her supreme coordination. She is no mother.
Event 1 Synchronised dressing: Everyone must be dressed appropriately and finish at the same time. This requires extreme patience, and substantial lung control so as not to burst into screaming fits. Clothes should be on in the right position (i.e., not everted or backwards). Clothes should be appropriate to the season (no sweatpants or long sleeves) and to the occasion (today is picture day). This requires ironing (only of shirt to be photographed) and grooming. Points to be awarded for timeliness, finished product,lack of violence, and number of attempts.
Event 2 Gymnastics: Must be able to juggle book bags, handbags, extra clothes, travel coffee mug, travel juice box, date book, and any other last minute additions. Includes skill movements such as holding open storm door with foot and car door with butt. Points to be awarded for: no injuries, falls or other deductions, coordination, grace, and fluidity of movement.
Event 3 Weight Lifting: Must be able to balance and carry 35 pound toddler, giant book bag, overflowing laundry basket, dog. Not all weights must be carried together, but significant strength must be proven. No dropping.
Event 4 Ping Pong: Information will be ricocheting around the house. One must absorb, process, and respond to any information required. This includes, but is not limited to, homework locations, book bag locations, who's on first, when various household members will be home, and after school schedules. Standing WAY back from the ping pong table helps to keep everything in front of you.
Event 5 Marathon: After the car is loaded in Event #3, and all information is processed in Event #4, then the Marathon begins. This event is particularly dangerous for competitors. Injuries can happen, articles can be forgotten, and routes can change without notice. Today's Marathon began at home, went to the neighbor's house for carpool pick-up, continued to school, then to Kindermusik, to the preschool, then back to school to deliver school picture check (forgotten in gymnastics event), to the grocery store, and finally back home again. The Marathon will continue this afternoon with preschool pickup, after-school activities and possibly dinner. I sustained the rare butt injury when mine became embedded into the driver's seat of the car. I'll rehab that tonight at cocktail hour.
We placed poorly today, due to failed communication in the ping pong event, forgotten articles during gymnastics, and cursing during synchronised dressing. I plan to use the three day weekend to train for next week. I wonder what Bela Karolyi is doing these days. We may need to pull him out of retirement.
Remember: noaa.gov Keep your fingers crossed!

I'll Bloat Away

I don't know what came over me last night. Yesterday afternoon, I dutifully went to the market and purchased fresh, organic meat and produce to make a lovely roasted vegetable/chicken enchilada dinner. Yum. Cheese and Mexican goodness. What could be better?
Then, it happened. At around 4:30, I was hit with an intense craving for Chinese Food. Not gourmet or healthy Chinese food, either. Greasy, fried, starchy, soaking through the cute little Chinese food holder Chinese food. The little waxen egg roll holder transparent in big round grease spots. Opening the delivery bag to the guilt inducing aromas of Sesame and General Tso. Ahh. I gorged myself. Really. It was disgusting. And after I ate all of that greasy, fried, corn-syrup laden food, I nibbled--ever so delicately--a fortune cookie.
My fortune, of course, was some optimistic quip about confidence and lottery numbers. What it should have said, is "apparently, it is the year of the pig. You disgust me, you gluttonous oaf." Because no matter HOW badly I want Chinese food, no matter HOW urgently my craving must be met, no matter WHAT I order, I always regret eating it 10 minutes after I'm through.
Maybe it's that post-feeding frenzy malaise. Maybe it's lethargy from eating dubious meat in high fructose sauces. Maybe it's the calculation of the 14,000 calories I ingested. Whatever it is, guilt washes over me almost as intensely as the initial craving.
I resolve to exercise harder.
So, this morning I get up and my fingers have morphed into little cocktail wieners. There are no knuckles, just chubby little blobs that used to be appendages. The salt strikes again. I can't possibly run with all this fluid retention. It will be like sloshing around in a fat suit. I need to flush this body out.
Instead I take an hour long speed walk. I feel a compromise. I negotiated with the saline retention to find a solution. Yes, I did slosh around a little. But I exercised pretty well. And I hope it will be a while before I become possessed by the Chinese food cravings. I hope.
Tonight Mexican?
By the way, Gustav has turned left, headed for poor New Orleans. (Gustav and Katrina are both fierce, Russian sounding names). Though we will probably still feel some effects. But Hanna has now formed east of the leeward islands. The Atlantic Basin looks like Air Traffic Controller Radar. Keep an eye on us at noaa.gov

Gustav is Coming to Visit

Do you remember in the olde days when women would say, "my cousin is visiting" as slang for having a period? Well, Gustav is coming to visit. And it actually seems worse than a period. Hurricane forecasters, including the eminent Joe Bastardi, predict gloom and doom for the Gulf Coast. Being obsessed with weather anyway, I have been visiting accuweather.com religiously. As if the forecast could change minute by minute.
In any event, the forecast does look pretty bad. Probably a category 3 storm. Probably early to mid-week next week. Probably more damage for a coast still not fully recovered from Katrina. It's all bad news.
Not to minimize the bad news, but I can only fixate on one outcome of the storm. Not the safety of my family, not the protection of my house, not the preservation of my personal treasures. I can think only of this: School will be canceled.
Come ON. We just got into the groove of it. This is the first week of school for me. Both my children are finally gainfully occupied for several hours a day in a way that pains me very little. But now, Gustav threatens to send them home with little/no electricity. Hideous heat. Mosquitoes. Trapped in the house. Bored. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. For how long?
This can't be happening.
Is there a Midol for hurricanes? Stay posted:
http://hurricane.accuweather.com/hurricane/index.asp?partner=accuweather&traveler=0

Cher, Elton John and Other Divas

I get it. Celine Dion, Cher and Beyonce are required to change outfits every time they reappear on stage during a performance. Poufy hair, straight hair, wig hair. Different mood, different image. It's Hollywood.
My question is, why does my E have to change clothes 14 times in the morning before school? I'm no fool: we lay out clothes every night. Right down to underwear and socks. And then this morning, he comes traipsing down the stairs in a bright blue stripe shirt with green and brown plaid shorts. What is this assault on my eyeballs? It's too early in the morning for him to be wearing clothes that make me dizzy. For SURE, that is not what I laid out with him last night.
He thought it was cool. But today is a school day. He doesn't need to look like a GQ model. He just needs to not look like an Escher painting. For chapel, I don't require he dress fancy. I require only a collared shirt. Shorts are even ok when you're five. But he can easily go the extra step and wear a polo-style shirt. (With or without pony on it)
First comes the Transformer Tee, on backwards. "I'll wear it backwards to chapel and then turn it around." I point my finger back to the bedroom.
Then a completely over the top black and white striped long sleeve polo shirt with a giant golden Ralph Lauren seal on it (not my purchase). With brown and green plaid skate shorts. Finger again.
Next down the runway we have a lovely Hanes white undershirt. Finger.
FINALLY, he makes his way down the stairs in a navy collared short sleeve shirt. No pony. No festoon. No freaking stripes. It looks good. You know why?
IT'S WHAT WE PICKED OUT TO WEAR LAST NIGHT!!!!!
By now, 12 minutes have elapsed, and we are frantically slamming on shoes, slicking down Alfalfa hairs, and slurping down cereal. The backpack I have prepared for him and left on the bottom step is missing. Ah, he took it upstairs. Why? Shoes untied, socks on crooked, teeth half-brushed, cereal bowl left on the table, frantic departure. Completely unnecessary.
Finally, he is off. I go into his room, and it looks like robbers have tossed his dresser.
I should get his autograph now before he forgets the little people.

Do you HEAR that?

It's nothing. Silence. Merely the clickety clack of my keyboard. My children are at school. My husband is at work. The dog is sleeping. The rain pours down, providing a perfect white noise on the roof.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Warp in the Time/Space Continuum

Did some one make weekends longer without telling me? Did I not get a memo somewhere? Yesterday, we took the kids to the exploreum and saw Fly Me To The Moon. First off, you are going to want to volunteer to be a test subject for Ebola before you go see this movie. The inanity. The predictable jokes. The Buzz Aldrin at the end, reminding us that it is a physical impossibility to have flies on a space mission. IT'S A MOVIE, BUZZ. IT'S PRETEND. Besides, he came off pretty well. He was the one who said, "don't kill the flies, they' re American after all." AMERICAN? Really, are we issuing passports to house pests these days? My cockroaches flashed me their Guatemalan papers yesterday, so I had to deport them. What the jingoistic heck is that crap? If they had been Canadian flies, would we have given them a bath in RAID and sent them home in tiny maple leaf caskets?
So, since you won't be seeing that movie any time soon, let me tell you more disappointing news about the exploreum. They are no longer going to feature a travelling exhibit. In place of the travelling show, there is going to be a permanent exhibit on the human body. Great. More filthy exhibits for the kids to climb on while learning the importance of washing their hands. The great paradox of hygiene instruction for the young.
E was hit especially hard by the news of the permanent exhibit. He ordered that we terminate our annual pass, because there will be no point in returning. He cried, he wailed, and while doing so, crashed into a light post on the street.
Meanwhile, there is just enough rain from T.S. Fay to make it too wet to go out. Mind you, there was an awful lot of hype for a little bit of rain. Granted, Florida got hit hard, and that's actual real storm damage. But Mobile is getting light rain. LIGHT RAIN, PEOPLE. So, we are inside. Again. Still. I am wondering how it can only be twenty minutes until 10. The day is moving like molasses. The arguing. The fighting. The mess. The need for entertainment...
Tomorrow, M, E and S will be gone to school by 9 AM. It will be quiet in this house and I have no errands. I will enjoy the silence.
My clock is not moving. Really. It's not.
Is there a leap to warp speed or something?

Squirrel Food

Kids are funny. I think they are funniest when they don't mean to be at all. I am not really into Stooge humor. I don't like it when S flops or crashes into things for slapstick effect. His rubber face is slightly funnier, but that's usually when he's not trying. E, of course has a totally different humor. His is verbal and he is experimenting with riddles and puns. Puns are one of the staples of my humor, so I am happy to see him fostering this style. This week, though, S dropped a couple of funnies of his very own.
First he saw an obese woman. He leans over and says "That is a BIG, FAT woman." I said, "Honey, it's not polite to talk about some one's size. It would hurt her feelings." He responds with "Then she's a LITTLE, FAT woman." Ah, yes. The concrete thinker.
This morning, he brings me a squirrel turd. He says it is a teeny tiny acorn that he saw a little squirrel drop.
I NEVER share these kinds of stories, because it seems like they're never real. These are real. Promise.
J

Universal Balance

So, I'm not Buddhist or Zen or Hindu. I'm not even very knowledgeable about those faiths. But those Eastern disciplines evoke in my mind an idea of Universal Balance. The yin and yang. I'm starting to see glimmers of that balance in my life--in my children of course. First, a definition from dictionary.com:

yin and yang
–noun
(in Chinese philosophy and religion) two
principles, one negative, dark, and feminine (yin), and one positive,
bright, and masculine (yang), whose interaction influences the destinies of
creatures and things.

My first born is Yin. E is often moody and unpredictable. Since school has started, he bemoans his lack of time alone (what five year old craves time alone?). He is pessimistic and worries constantly. Very Yin. S is Yang all the way. Yang is all about earnestness and eagerness. He is on it, whatever it happens to be. He is physical and optimistic. He accepts punishment as though he really understands the concept of justice ("yeah, I blew it. No TV. Sucks to be me.") A complete opposite of Yin.

So Yin and Yang have an agreement at my house. I don't know if it's an actual spoken agreement, or if it's just the way the universe crumbles. Only one of them can behave on any given day. Yesterday, Yang actually helped me clean out the playroom. We swept cockroach body parts, (survive a nuclear winter, my ass. They couldn't survive my kids' psychotically messy closet. It was like a cockroach chainsaw killer went berserk. Limbs everywhere. Ew.) sorted toys, and took out trash. He explained to me all the streets we needed to take to run our errands. He even played nicely for an hour and a half BY HIMSELF, on the ground, at Starbucks. That is some kind of Yang, let me tell ya. On the other hand, Yin was late for school yesterday because of his foul, foul mood. He was whiny, bitchy, and complained about everything. He didn't want to eat dinner, he didn't want to watch the end of Diego Saves the Moon. He didn't want to clear the table. He WOULDN'T go to bed. He was a wretched little boy.

This morning, Yin is downstairs at 7. He is dressed, asks politely for cereal. Holds the dog, takes him out, asks me how I slept, for pity's sake. He is ready to go to school on time, backpack in hand. Whoa. Yin, is that you? Yang, this morning, is in bed screaming at his dad. He does not want the proffered cereal. He does NOT want to play with the dog this morning. He WILL not clear his bowl. He is lying on my bed moaning for chocolate milk. Yang is a pain in the butt today. Universal balance people, it's out there.

Instant karma's gonna get me. Instant, huh? Can we have that for dinner?

Breaking Through

I did it. I finally did it! I went out to coffee this morning with a mom from E's Kindergarten class. She met some friends who were also there to whom she introduced me. And I KNEW ONE! Amazing. I have completed the social circle of Mobile. I am IN.
Actually, that makes two remarkable social events this week. Monday, M took off from work, and we went downtown for breakfast. As we were leaving, we actually ran in to someone we knew. Can you imagine that?
We are the least social people ever, and in fact many of the friends we have now are women I have met through my kids. M knows people from work, but not many from outside. So to meet two people in town at non-child events is remarkable.
Now, two things. I have not cracked the Old Mobile Circle. That is an upper eschelon of super-beings that we mere mortals from out of state can only stare at in awe. Don't get me wrong. I don't begrudge the old Mobile families their elite status, I just don't ever interact with them. They don't want me, and I think we're okay with that arrangement.
Nor, and I want to make this perfectly clear, am I abandoning my vigilant post against the plastic moms. I am not becoming a plastic mom who laments my micro-problems at the cafe. I have found mostly real humans, and am excited about it. Sure, they may drift into the Springhill circle, but they are not permanent residents. I am still anti-plastic mom. Have no fear.
In honor of that position, I will post today the anti-plastic mom anthem:

White SUV (sung to Yellow Submarine)

In this town called old Mobile
There lived some moms from rich Springhill
And they liked their wealth to show
with visors and tennis clothes

So we drive into carpool
Dripping with all of our jewels
And we learn to be aloof
Just riding off to school

We all drive a white suv
White suv, white suv
We all drive a white suv white
suv white suv

If it is a big Yukon or
perhaps a Dena-lee
We have more than we need
In our white suvs

We all drive a white suv
A white suv, a white suv
We all drive a white suv, a
white suv white suv

These are folks who live next door
They think that we eat off the floor
And the children go to Wright
And play the St Pauls way

We all drive a white suv
A white suv, a white suv
We all drive a white suv, a white suv, a white suv

(Full speed ahead Mrs. Parker full speed ahead
Use up the fuel! More fuel more fuel! Consume consume!)

As they live their life of ease
They’re happy with conformity
Hair of blond and faces freezed
By the botox if you please

We all drive a white suv
A white suv, a white suv
We all drive a white suv, a white suv, a white suv

My Kids are Movie Stars

OK. Not exactly movie stars. They're not in ads, tv shows or motion pictures. Really, I try to keep their images private. But, nonetheless, I feel like they get rock star treatment. I often feel like the Anne Hathaway character in the Devil Wears Prada. I am the personal assistant to two huffy, demanding, and completely unreasonable bosses.
Carpool: honestly, there is less brou-ha-ha at the Oscars. Cars and SUVs, like limos line up for blocks. Edging moment by moment to the red carpet. There, a teacher (another of my child's personal assistants, no doubt) who drew short straw and got carpool duty this week, gathers my child and his things, opens his door, and fastens his belt for him. I pull away at limo speed, so as not to jostle my passenger. In the morning, I pull up, and teachers disguised as attendants open his door and escort him to the building. On rainy days, the attendants are armed with umbrellas so as not to get the VIP the least bit damp. Meanwhile, I go to the grocery store, the doctor's office, whatever, and am parked in Timbuktu, schlepping umbrella, handbag, grocery list, cart with bum wheel up to the entrance where some woman in polyester elasticized pants is too busy yakking on her cell phone to hold the door open for me, and it slams, pfump, in my face. Thanks.
Food: my children often get a separate dinner served to them. I try not to, but M and I occasionally have food that is spicy or unusual and the VIPs turn up their noses at it. Thus, chicken nugs and mac and cheese are nuked and served, sliced into convenient bite sized pieces and cooled to the most palatable temperature. Dip and drinks are brought as their royal highnesses sit perched atop their thrones.
Laundry & other services: Every week the laundry fairy has replenished their supply of clean clothes. Poof! I have removed all the ketchup, grease and grass stains, and their clothes are often pressed. Every morning, the cereal of their choice is in the pantry. Poof! Every afternoon, their favorite tv show is TIVO'd. Poof! Every weekend, M and I have researched one fun place or thing for us to go to or do. Poof! Playdate? Poof! Ride to playdate? Poof! Fixed toys? Poof! Haircuts? Bandaids? Song on the iPod? Poof Poof Poof!
Don't get me wrong. I have heard "thank you" on occasion. I have even heard the rare "cool." But it seems to me that being a kid is kind of awesome.
I need a new agent.

The Bloom is Off the Rose

Monday. E toddled into my room this morning and announced he was NOT going to school today. I guess his Kindergarten euphoria was limited to three days of early dismissal.
M has decided to take the day off. He needs a break from his work. He has been working seven days a week this summer. I think the reality of another semester has hit. It begins in less than a week, and he hasn't had a break yet. After speaking to my sister describe the steps I need to take to actually lose weight, I have given up forever the dream of a size 6. S...well nobody really knows what S wants. I just heard Clooney deflate. He misses his kids.
Everyone is flat today.
Weekends are fading into that school year blah. Saturday recovery, Sunday preparation. Laundry up to my eyeballs. Groceries. Blah. Not even preseason football or the Olympics revved me up.
I'm back on to my crime novels. Tempe just sent Mr.-Eyes-As-Blue-As-The-Carolina-Sky home after a break-in at her house. I am waiting for the attacker to climb out of the closet. As ANYONE who watches slasher films or reads crime novels knows, you NEVER EVER send handsome cop home after the break-in.
In other breaking news, I painted my toenails.
I can sense your envy.

This is the Question

Ambivalence is a big thing in my life. Sort of. I mean, I have never been perfectly happy with any decision in my entire life. Has anyone?
Not that I am not happy; I am. Many series of near-misses, and mostly satisfieds have led me to a place where I am happy. I love my children, my husband, my home, my city, my life. Mostly. I always second guess, though. The what-ifs nose in.
When my first son was born, I actually told my husband that we could leave the infant at the fire station. When my second son was born, I was sure it was the worst mistake ever. When I find myself lying next to my snoring husband, I wonder if that is what I had bargained for. I am ambivalent about my E's going to Kindergarten (he's so ready; he's still my baby). About S going to preschool every day (he really does well there; am I pushing him away?) I feel that way about Clooney now, too (cute canine, more responsibility.) Is there anything I am sure about? Is there any feeling of which I don't feel the flip side?
I wonder if there is some self help guru out there who would help me channel my mixed feelings into a single emotion. Is ambivalence enlightenment? Am I more "self aware" because I can connect with both sides of single emotion? Or is it neurosis--a way to constantly rehash and revisit decisions? Surprising no one, I am not sure.
So, I have a dog now. The dog is sweet and has proven himself to be a quick learner. We are moving forward in his housebreaking and he seems to be a quiet, unobtrusive member of the family (that is for sure a change!) On the other hand, I am enlisting in years more of responsibility, of finding petsitters and groomers and vet appointments at a time in my life when I was emerging from all those similar responsibilities of infancy and toddler-hood. Hmm. I am not sure. And poor Clooney must think he belongs to Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde. I am often cuddly attentive. Other times, I am just this side of icy.
The only thing for certain is that a Danish Prince obsessed over decisions less than I.

Coming Out

I've decided to use this forum to come out to my parents--as a new dog owner. Like a kid with a bad report card, I dread telling my folks I got a dog AGAIN. I got a dog in college, and she was wonderful. A great big warm fuzzy. Last February, she passed away. For the last year, I have been missing the little pooch. Yesterday, a dog called out to me. Hey, lady! Want a dog? And there he was a 14 week old, iddy biddy ball of caramel colored fluff. He is half shih tzu and half pekingnese. He is a PekeTzu. He will grow from his current 5 pounds to 8 or 10.

So now that my boys are or will be back in school, I have a new project.

His name is Clooney, because ALL the girls love him. I was explaining his name to to this woman at PetCo last night when I realized she is a lesbian. Oh well, I suspect even lesbians love George. Here's his first papparazzi picture. I'll be sitting at home waiting for the phone call from my parents, "YOU DID WHAT?!?"

Any Club That Would Have Me For A Member...

Deep breath. Deep breath. My first baby went of to Kindergarten today.He was adorable. Got up with his alarm clock, leaped into his clothes, brushed his hair and teeth. He was excited, palpably so. His teacher is about, oh, I dunno, 12 years old? She told us that she was excited to be back to the school she went to 10 years ago. In my head: 8th grade, 10 years ago, she's like 23. Oh God, her mother still remembers sending her off to kindergarten. Ms. F is young and cute, and Ethan will love her by the end of the week.

Yesterday was the parent orientation. I was not among the blond, ultra thin moms dressed to the nines. Does the peer pressure ever stop? Instead of coming home and thinking about school supplies and sign up sheets and class parties, I was thinking about Botox, hair dye and rhinoplasty. These moms were the cheerleaders of high school and the sorority sisters of college. I thought I was done with all that nonsense. Yesterday, I don't know who was trying to impress whom more...was Ms. F in her rookie year, looking confident, despite her quavering voice trying to assure us with her credentials and earnestness? Or were these wives and moms trying to outdo each other like peacocks? These women weren't entities unto themselves--I'm Mychelle's mom. My husband is a physician. Jewelry, hairdos, heels, teetering on miniature kindergarten chairs. Beneath the make-up was skin glowing from a recent workout with a personal trainer, and taut with chemical/surgical assistance. Ms. F was a baker's decade younger than any mom in her classroom and beaming with the natural beauty of youth. I was fingering the wrinkles in my forehead, wondering if they showed too much. The insincere half smiles of greeting. That is my son. The one in the Polo shirt, shorts, shoes, socks, and underwear. That is my daughter. The one with two names, gingham Mennonite dress, and bow as big as her head.

As I struggled out of the classroom, clumsily juggling purse, calendar, umbrella, and school supplies, I asked why I have to make the trade. Why does committing to my son's education in Mobile involve a mortgaging of my social expectations? I never in my life have played nicely with these women. I have rebelled against and acted out against their cloned superficiality since I can remember. Part of me feels compelled to keep up. To look just so. But then I get so angry that they sucked me into it. So, no Botox for me. I'll just drop my baby off at school in my pjs for the next eight years.

A footnote...S's preschool does not start until the 25th. I need a school directory so I can find out who I need to stab about that.

The Final Weekend

Well, this is it. Weeks of summer that seemed to inch by now seem gone in a blink. The last weekend of summer.
I remember the ambivalence of this weekend as a kid. Eager to go back to school (I was a nerd, hence blogging. Big surprise.) I wanted to see my friends, I longed for the organized, crisp new boxes of markers and pens. I always had a clean, new bookbag and clothes. I would gather and regather the new supplies. Pack them in the bag, set it by the door and carefully plan the first day's outfit.
Of course, it was the end of summer. Our summers were great as kids. We vacationed--usually a road trip plus a long stay at the beach--we were tanned and blond (with green highlights from the pool). Our little feet were practically raw from days jumping and playing in the gunnite pool. The house was cool, the outside was hot, and my sister and I had free reign over the outside kingdom of our house. Dad grilled, mom relaxed, and the sun still hadn't set by the time we collapsed in our beds. Summer was incredible.
Now, of course, I see summer from an entirely different perspective, in a different place. Here, it's unholy hot during the days. My kids still play outside, but it's a play dulled by the heat and the humidity here in the south. They've adopted the lazy pace of the south as dictated by the weather. They play in the pool. We have a vinyl pool now, and their little feet still have the calluses of running barefoot. We grill, I hope I relax the rules, and my kids are brown little bears. I have restocked E's school supplies. He has a new bookbag, clean and crisp. He has beautiful new clothes, a proper haircut, and trimmed and clean fingernails. He has lost the wildness of summer, and has been reclaimed for a civilized life. His first year of Kindergarten. "Real" school. He's apprehensive about making friends, but he always has a bunch after the first week. He's eager to learn more math, he says. I am eager for him to go. Not only because I am ready for my kids to leave me alone for a few hours a day, but because I want him to enjoy that great first day of school. A place all his own. A cubby or a desk, even a coat hook with his name on it. Dressed in his favorite outfit. Ready to go.
Part of what makes the anticipation of school so sweet is knowing that you had an amazing summer; that it wasn't wasted. I always felt that summer was finished, I had completed it, that I was ready for school. I hope E feels that way. I hope our trips, our movies, our ice cream breaks, our afternoons in the pool make him feel that we somehow did it all. That when you enjoyed yourself to the utmost, school is a welcome change. I hope he goes off with the same freshness and enthusiasm that I had in September.
Though I still have a little ambivalence....a different kind now. But much like the glory of summer must turn to school schedules, so must the glory of my little baby transition to a school aged boy. But, I think we did the preschool years well. We did it all, we enjoyed ourselves to the utmost, and school is the next step. I think I'm ready, too.

Diet Fads Come & Go. My Fat is Here to Stay

Ok. I'm obsessed with my weight, and in some act of denial, or perhaps just stark reality, I have yet to take serious action against the flab in the midsection. (Perhaps I should just keep wrangling with slimming swimwear.) I run, yes. But apparently, that agony is required just to maintain the status quo. I gave up cookies, true. But despite the emotional anxiety, the pounds didn't just fly off. Also true with the alcohol. (That was good news, so I am back to a nightly cocktail. Sanity prevails.)
So, I have been studying the popular diets out there. I could quit carbs, which apparently works. I could drink only lemon water with pills, which works until you collapse. Anorexia, it turns out, takes a long time to work--the body just slows its metabolism until it is forced to eat into fat storage. At that point, of course, my body has enough fat stored up to sustain all of Alabama through a nuclear winter. And then, there is my sister's diet of choice. My 5'11", 135 lb. sister's diet of choice. Clearly, it works. Let me explain:
Six days a week, you eat 6 meals of no more than 200 calories each. Each meal includes a protein portion and a carbohydrate portion. One fat portion (i.e., avocado, every other day is allowed). No meals after 6 PM. Water only. Protein bars are ok. Six days per week exercise alternating weight lifting with cardio training. On one day per week, you are permitted to increase your food intake moderately and take the day off working out. Yes, it's true. Even God rested one day.
Let me point out my sister is 29 and has no children.
Now, let me describe my life on said diet. First, so much as fiddle with the foil wrapping on a protein bar and my children come running like Pavlovian pups. Now, I've given them half of my precious 200 calorie meal. Repeat every 3 hours. Next, I endure the trials of my kids' snack time. Cookies, chocolate milk, bananas with peanut butter and chocolate chips, crackers with cheese and apples, summer popsicle treats....The temptations are biblical.
Now weight training, I do that every day: kids carried up the stairs, down the stairs, into car seats. Laundry baskets up the stairs, down the stairs. Groceries. Throwing human cannonballs (over and over) in the pool. Trash. Gardening.
Cardio. I am already running, dammit. Don't expect more.
Now, my sister wakes up at 4:30 to exercise every day. She finishes work at 3 and goes home to a silent house. Imagine it for a moment. A silent house. She can putter in her yard. OR NOT. She can do some wash. OR NOT. She can sit on her butt in the sun and read Shape magazine. OR NOT.
I have no OR NOTs. Well, not true exactly. I can watch my kids and have my house not burn down. OR NOT. I can supervise their art project and have clean walls. OR NOT. I can intervene in an argument and avoid the ER. OR NOT. So, we'll assume my day starts at 6 and is not silent for the next 14 hours. This leaves little motivation for the AbMaster. Not to mention the screaming agony of sitting down to pee after doing a 100 lunges across the gym.
So, I'll take my kids, my 14 hour day, and the 15 pound inner tube around my middle, and go have a drink. When science gets over the whole Cancer, AIDS, heart disease thing, and starts to work on the instant slimmifcator, I'll take it. 'Til then, bon appetit.

Physics. Laws Were Made to be Broken

I had a great day. Kids in the pool (til it rained), enjoyed the last drops of summer. Those golden, hazy drops of sweetness with my children. The days, I won't lie, that have been stacked up like semi trucks in a snowstorm since freaking May. Summer needs to be 5 weeks long. Winter Break needs to be 4 weeks long. Spring Break needs to be 2 weeks long. Children, like alcohol, are best enjoyed in moderation. Too much makes you throw up.
I wore my "slimmer suit" today in the pool. The one that makes you look 10 pounds thinner "the moment you put it on." As if it takes ONE moment to put on. I worked up a sweat trying to put that sucker on, which made it worse, because then I was sweaty and it wouldn't pull up. If there were hidden cameras in my bathroom, it would have looked like I was warming up for Cirque du Soleil. I was cavorting, stretching, pulling, bending. It's a freaking yoga workout. The funny thing to me, though, was that after 3 or 4 minutes of putting on this god forsaken suit, I'm finally all in it, and then there's this quaint little clasp at the neckline to fasten. As if that suit were going anywhere! A tsunami could not pull that suit off of me. Taking it off after swimming, in fact, was an equally gymnastic activity. And when I took it off, I felt as though all my rolls and bulges just spread out like dough. The whole thing was actually a traumatic experience. I should get therapy.
Time Magazine is running an article that debunks the myth of "moderate exercise." To lose weight, the study suggests, an hour (not a half hour)or more most days (not just 3 per week) a week is necessary.
Great. More days to feel guilty.
I want to be like a kid. I want to eat three bites of grilled cheese for lunch and then nothing else for two and a half days. I'd like to live off the calories of chocolate milk and chicken nuggets. That's it. My kids run around like hell demons, sure, but they seem to do it on 15 calories a day. How is that possible? Weight is all about calories in = calories out. Children are growing, playing, talking, developing, screaming, fighting, running, crashing calorie consumers. How do they live on a hot dog a day? There's something we're not being told.
Also, my S defies sleep rules. Children need rest. We know this. I napped with him today, because he was exhausted (and I had two margaritas) and I didn't want a meltdown at dinner time. So, I'm laying there, watching my angel drift into sleep, and I realize HIS EYES AREN'T CLOSED. He's sleeping, the eyeballs are all rolled up, but the lids aren't down. This kid is freakin' me out. He took his wide open nap for an hour, at least. No meltdown today.
Tomorrow, the last of the summer vacations. The good old family road trip. I might be posting tomorrow, because, you know, I'll have to turn this car around and go home.

Going Down with the Pequod

Look, I don't want to be Chicken Little here, but there is something really wrong with the economy. I mean, there are PROBLEMS, people.
Sure, it costs an arm and a leg to fill up my car. And, yeah, I've noticed the cost of milk and meat among other groceries is up there. But, I think the bellwether of the financial gloom and doom is the closing of my Starbucks.
Starbucks is CLOSED. Cerrado. As in, no more lattes, lady. Mocha is a no-go. Cafe away.
I have an elaborate home coffee ritual, which in my own way is an economic stimulus package. I buy pounds of beans from a plantation on the island of Kauai. They are so freshly roasted, they glisten. Their aroma scents the entire mailbox when they arrive every month per my bean o' the month arrangement (let's not talk about the ridiculous money I spend to do my part to prevent overdevelopment in rural Hawaii). I have a stainless steel burr grinder that produces perfectly measured even grinds for my coffeemaker. The maker itself, timed to lure me from bed, heats water to the ideal temperature for extracting aroma and flavor from the grounds. I add milk and a touch of sugar to my cup and cuddle it in my hands, as though it were fragile. I love my morning coffee. I love the ritual. I love the final result of it. I don't need Starbucks.
Despite this, I am upset about the whole Starbucks thing. First, Starbucks is a good company; they treat their employees well. Second, I have always felt it elevated us a little as Americans. It is drive through (very American) but also chic. It is cooler, more stylish, more refined than McDonald's and every other drive through on every corner in this country. Third, their product isn't instantly palatable--it isn't cloyingly sweet or nauseatingly fatty. In fact, the product is bitter, perhaps even too harshly roasted. But, we of the dumb palettes went anyway! It is undoubtedly a vice, a frivolous luxury of the western world, but it certainly isn't our worst.
Also, it is (sniff. was) a social destination. I could always meet someone at Starbucks. There is something reliable about that.
Everyone always wonders how Starbucks survives. My dad, for one: "People stand in line and spend more than 5 bucks for horrible tasting coffee? What the hell?" But in the face of common sense, Starbucks thrived. And grew. And spread.
But now. Now, when we need the comfort of economic boom more than ever, Starbucks is failing. Apparently, people are too busy standing in line paying 5 bucks a gallon for gas. But, I'll miss it. This will be the second town I've lived in that had no Starbucks. How statistically odd of me. Who knew there WERE two towns without Starbucks? It's gonna be tough. Tighten your belt, pa. There's hard times ahead.